


celebrations

by charbroiled



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fluff, M/M, birthday celebration, post-crimson-flower but metodey is alive, slight mention of violence (metodey can't help it)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21841831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charbroiled/pseuds/charbroiled
Summary: Metodey celebrates his birthday, more or less, and then tries to celebrate Linhardt's.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/Metodey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	celebrations

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts from Twitter! They happened to fit together, I revised them slightly to post. Again TECHNICALLY this is in my Sanguine Throne AU, but it's not terribly important. There will be work eventually where Metodey and Linhardt actually get together, but my hands are cursed and I keep typing garbage out of order instead. Enjoy!

**BEFORE**

Birth days weren't something Agarthans celebrated, but Metodey _had_ read about them multiple times-- it did _seem_ like a day worth celebrating, when he thought about it. The day he'd entered the world, covered in blood.

The way he intended to leave it, really. Maybe even... on the same day? That would be fitting, wouldn't it? The problem was, he would have to know what day it was, to celebrate or appreciate the poetic irony of dying on. The Agarthans had the record of the day they'd discovered him, of course-- they kept _way_ more detailed records than Metodey was interested in ever reading-- but no one had bothered to, as far as he could tell, ask his parents when he'd been born before disposing of them and adopting him.

A minor oversight, surely. He'd been chosen to serve; worthy, not disposable.

Anyway, it was a solvable problem; he merely had to choose a day. The Saint's days were too... well, bootlicking, in his opinion, so he chose the anniversary of the crowning of Nemesis as his birth-day, and he sat in his room with his legs crossed and toasted himself with a stolen bottle of the hard proof that he wasn't allowed to have.

So he toasted alone; what of it? Nothing he'd read said that anyone else needed to split the bottle with him. And if he felt strangely unfulfilled save for the burn of the liquor, well... such a feeling could be assuaged with rest of the bottle, and by attending to his poison blades.

  
  
**AFTER**

"Ah, funny, that's my birthday," Linhardt had said, in passing, about the inscription date on one of Metodey's favorite poems-- another meaty one about shed blood and mud and the grotesque scene of battle, inspirational, really-- and Metodey had remembered that this was an important thing to many people-- outside of where he'd been raised-- and filed it away.

So with the circumstances in mind, Linhardt's raised eyebrows and vaguely bemused expression when Metodey presented him with a quill pen and a bottle of ink only stung a little.

"I'm sorry, but what's this for?" the scholar asked. "I _have_ pens I prefer, you know."

"For your birthday," Metodey said, not terribly put off by having to explain this basic concept. It's not like anyone had explained it to _him._ And if Linhardt didn't use this exact pen, well… it would remind him of Metodey when he looked at it, perhaps?

"Hm." Linhardt examined the glass bottle and the potent, ombre liquid within. "I hope you didn't steal it on my account."

"I paid for the pen," Metodey lied. "Ink can be made from toxic mushrooms," he added, since Linhardt looked unconvinced. "I brewed it. Blood-red when you write. Dries pitch black."

Linhardt set the ink bottle down, quickly. Of course he looked a bit ill at the mention of blood. Or maybe it was the toxin? Metodey slid his teeth across his lower lip, anxiously.

"I see," Linhardt said, his gaze averted just to the right of the bottle.

That was all it took for guilt to flood Metodey. He sat on the desk in front of Linhardt, shoved the ink aside. "Rose-red?" he suggested.

"...I appreciate the thought."

Metodey fidgeted, and Linhardt sighed.

"I mean it, you know," he said, after a moment. "I don't really... everyone was born, it doesn't seem significant. But you remembered, and made a gift. Come sit with me?"

"I'm not sitting on your lap. You can get up and sit on the desk with me if you want."

"I meant on the couch," Linhardt said, but his gaze did settle on Metodey instead of avoiding him.

They enjoyed a momentary standoff, but Metodey caved first, and Linhardt did join him.

He would probably always enjoy how well he fit against the taller man's chest.

"I'm curious," Linhardt said, as though that wasn't his constant state of being. "What made you remember this date?"

Metodey tilted his head back, and deep in the memories he found a couplet. "Hear this, thou age unbred--" he said, to the ceiling, or the sky, or anyone who would listen. To Linhardt. "'Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead."

"Morbid," Linhardt murmured, and Metodey made a scoffing grumble. "...but flattering;" and the scholar kissed him on the cheek.


End file.
